The Spider and the Fly
by ViSovari
Summary: Moriarty's obsession with Sherlock has caused John Watson to be the center of more attention than he's comfortable with. What is Moriarty hoping to learn by continually kidnapping him? Johnlock and MorMor, rated M for later chapters.
1. A Chance Meeting

(fyi, I have no beta yet so sorry for errors)

When John wakes, it is to drug induced disorientation and his arms painfully bound behind the back of the chair he is currently slumped forward in. His first reaction is one of calm observation of his surroundings. Life experience has instilled both patience and clear headedness in the man, especially in times of trouble and what better time than this? White room, featureless except for a large metal panel set into the wall, about 6 feet wide and 4 tall by John's estimation.

Odd, but he'll focus on that when it actually seems to serve a purpose in this. Think, how did you end up here. Where were you abducted from? Was it the flat?

They might have Sherlock.

The first surge of panic takes him at the thought. Fuck, fuck, fuck, wait. No, he'd been on his way back from doing paperwork for Lestrade. He'd decided to walk a few blocks in the surprisingly nice weather before hailing a cab. Then? Nothing. Everything past entering the cab was a very sudden, very dark, blank. John's brain takes this information and formats it thusly:

He has been kidnapped

There is nothing and no one in this room with him (metal panel excluded)

He has no idea who has done this nor any clues

Whether or not they have Sherlock is unknown

Right, then. John immediately turns to the only course of action available to him. He begins testing the bindings on his wrists. For some reason he cannot imagine, they are bound with some sort of stiff, course rope and not cuffs. The rope begins to saw through his wrists as he tests the bindings but he doesn't wince or otherwise react to the blood that begins to drip from his hands. This is hardly the worst he's been through and should he live, he knows it won't be the last bit of pain he suffers. The chord winds through the metal slats on the back of the chair, which he notices is bolted to the ground.

Bits and flashes of Sherlock threaten to sidetrack him but John knows the only way he can help Sherlock is to get out of here. As he continues to fumble with the infinitesimally yielding knots, the blood plipping against the cement floor faster with every second, the metal panel in the wall recesses slightly and begins to descend. Behind it is a large glass window. Through the window is a well-dressed man, his eyes glinting like chips of obsidian.

Moriarty stares at John with no expression, no emotion, no hint of any reason for this other than to watch John Watson sit in a chair. He is reclining it a chair looking suspiciously more expensive than the cost of everything John owns combined. His hands alight primly on the armrest, manicure nails glinting in the fluorescents and for all the felinity he exudes, John can still feel ice water pooling deep in his stomach, an ache that is slowly spreading to the rest of him. Moriarty was always a possibility of course but John had been hoping, very nearly praying, for it to be someone else, anyone else. Because this, Moriarty's too pretty hands being at the wheel? This is as bad as it can possibly get.

John shows nothing on his face, merely meets the viperous stare of the man who, on their previous meeting, had strapped him with a c-4 vest and breathed vile promises in his ear. Anger bubbles violently but John has no choice but to control it. The results of this meeting will not only decide whether or not he leaves the room alive but will also set the tone for any further dealings Moriarty has planned with him.

Slowly, neither increasing nor decreasing his breathing, without a flicker to his eyes, or a twitch in his face, John begins calmly closing away his emotions. First the anger, quickly and securely for it is the most likely to affect anything he might say. Second, the fear. This one is easy, an emotion he perfected control over long before he'd met Sherlock or heard of Jim from IT. The third is a different kind of fear; it is an icy dread nested deep inside of him. Poisonous and crawling and difficult beyond measure to contain. It is the dread that Moriarty's plan is already in action. That, at this moment, Sherlock is rushing headlong into yet another trap that John has been made the bait of. He struggles with it, nearly losing the fight when the picture of Sherlock's face at the pool comes unbidden to his mind. He cannot put Sherlock through that again.

Before it can get any more out of hand, John summons all of his willpower and settles a vice like grip around the unwelcome emotion and pulls. It hurts for a second but comes free and this too, he tucks away. A soothing sort of void settles over him and John meets Moriarty's stare, second for second.

How long it lasts, he has no way of telling. Exhaustion slowly begins to set into his bones but still he watches the predator behind the glass. He will give nothing to this man. He does his best to drill that into Moriarty through his eyes alone.

I will not help you. You will gain nothing except my death. I am prepared to endure hell at your hands but you will still walk away empty-handed.

No matter how many times John looks back on it, he can never understand what changed to make Moriarty move first. To John's mind, he had not moved, he had not blinked or twitched but perhaps the only prompting Moriarty needed was his own.

His right hand rises, fingertips just resting over his lips. Lips whose corners are twitched up just the slightest notch. James Moriarty is smiling at John in a coquettish fashion reminiscent of flirtatious courtesans peering from behind elegant fans. His manicured nails glint like ivory against his lips and John knows that his disgust is ill-concealed when both hand and smile simultaneously drop. In seconds, the villain is out of his chair and the door to the observation room is swinging shut behind him. John wants to be relieved but he has a decent idea of where the man is headed.

Soon enough, there comes the unmistakable sound of a door being opened not too far behind him and cold metal digs in the base of his neck. It isn't clear who holds the gun until too sweet lips ghosts past John's face, Moriarty's lips unsettlingly close to his ear.

"Not to worry, good doctor, I will return you to your flat in one piece." The gun digs into his skin before twisting, grinding against his spinal chord. God, but it hurts. "And do you know why?"

He doesn't answer, knows that Moriarty doesn't expect him to have nor does he likely want to hear it. A chuckle at his other ear makes him jump. Moriarty moves so quietly, it can't be human. He curses himself for jumping but curses out loud when a tongue suddenly darts against his jawline.

"Oh, I don't mind if you swear, my treat." As he talks, his voice erratically jumps up and down, steadies then quickens and John has to keep himself from visibly shaking in anger. "No. no. no, precious, don't look at me like that. You've done so well today, don't ruin it."

"And it what way have I performed well?" John feels the gun at his neck pull away at his participation and is surprised when Moriarty flops onto the ground in front him. The look on his face is akin to a child on Christmas morning. "To my knowledge, I've been sitting in a chair and nothing else."

"Exactly! You're perfect!" The madman is practically beaming now and all John can do is struggle to comprehend his meaning. Moriarty shows his first glimmer of irritation when he sees John's confusion. "I didn't understand how he could put up with you, you excel at nothing in particular. You're a decent doctor and a good shot but nothing to write home about."

Instead of looking him in the eye, John watches as one of his hands traces out patterns too complex for John's eyes to track on the floor. "Do you have any idea how long our little staring contest went on, John? Four hours. Four hours!" His giggles are too high pitched for a grown man. "And you know what? You gave nothing. You denied me anything I could possibly see in you. Your eyes were dead, John, and I've seen my share of corpses."

Moriarty has begun playing with the cuff of John's pants, mindlessly tugging and tucking, twisting and smoothing. "And in nothing I've found everything I could have ever hoped for." With that he rises in one smooth motion to his feet, smoothing his suit in practiced motions before leveling a full smile at John. "Toodloo, Mr. Watson. I'm sure we'll see one another again."

Soft lips pressed chastely to his own are the last thing John has a chance to understand before a blow to the back of the head sends him spiraling back into unconsciousness. He wakes up some unknown amount of time later in his bed at Baker Street, his hands free and his head sore. On his ceiling a piece of paper has been tacked.

"Let's do lunch sometime!

-xoxo-

-Jim"

As soon as he is able to stand, John rips it off the ceiling and stashes it to destroy later when he has the chance. He has already decided not to tell Sherlock about this and he knows Moriarty is aware of this as well. The man didn't really hurt John and somehow, this didn't really seem to be about Sherlock, at least not much. The last thing he wants after this ordeal is to send Sherlock on a pointless spiral, obsessively searching for traces of Moriarty's trail and drilling John for information he simply does not have.

Decision made, he heads downstairs to find the flat empty and a still warm pot of coffee waiting for him. He doesn't want to know who made it or why.

But he has a really good guess.


	2. The Spider's Web

Jim Moriarty paced. A luscious study around him, all the luxuries of wealth and influence and refined taste copy and pasted from a disappointingly unimaginative catalogue. The only thing that made it remotely interesting were the two corpses perched upright and resplendent in the leather chairs. Decadent waterfalls of blood poured down their fronts, soaking the thick carpets and causing Jim to pause mid stride and squelch it between his toes compulsively. Like a child in the mud.

They'd been people an hour ago. Walking, talking, breathing, boring, horrible, redundant, unnecessary...no, Jim, focus! His fingers dig painfully into his temples as he forces himself to stop pacing and reconnect. An hour, an hour since the butler had delivered drugged coffee to the master and his wife in the study. 57 minutes since the butler had removed his shoes and padded quietly into the children's bedrooms, tying and gagging each of them before placing bows in their hair. 49 minutes since the butler had returned to the study and slit both the master and his wife's throats open with their ornamental letter opener, the only use it had ever known judging by its factory knew blade. And he was one to judge these sorts of things, after all.

45 minutes since Jim had dropped the butler face completely and relaxed into Jim Moriarty, extraordinary criminal for hire. 44 minutes since said brilliant man had begun pacing restlessly, faced with the bane of his existence.

Boredom.

This had been gruntwork, something a few men would have done for him had he given them the appropriate incentive. Yet here he was, Lem Riggings, temporary replacement for the family help who'd fallen sick of late. Dirtying his hands and reduced to menial tasks. Oh, he'd enjoyed it. Their gashed throats vomiting blood as they shook in their death throes, lost in the oblivion of opiates. Enjoyable for a short time but boring none the less.

A distraction. A delightful little something to sink his teeth into. If only, if only.

Mind adrift, Jim perused the bookshelves. Hmmm, should he check up on Sherlock? What would Sherlock be doing at this moment? Where was he? As he thought, he hmph'd and hmm'd, pale fingers hovering over spines, not quite touching, seeming to find nothing to his liking. The poor dear was likely at that dreadful little flat discussing something dreadfully boring with his dreadful little doctor friend.

Making a selection, his fingers ghost along the spine before drawing the book in a swift motion from the shelf, lighting it aflame in the fire place and tossing it to the floor. The carpet beneath it began to smolder before consuming more and more of the room and its furnishings. The fire alarm in the hall sounded as smoke billowed from beneath the closed study door. The fireman arrived in time to save the house but the perpetrator had long fled, leaving only a trail of bloody footprints and two children tied up with bows.


	3. Live Fast and Die Young

This is for "Expecto-Prongs," thank you for the support and for encouraging me to continue. As you can see, I got a bit carried away. UuU;;

John woke quickly thanks to old reflexes, remnants of his difficult war tour, and took the room in with a glance. He couldn't hold back the low groaning in his chest when he saw what awaited him. He was laying atop the coverlet of a queen bed in a fairly seedy looking hotel room. Grimmer even then that his shirt was plastered to his chest with blood from the still oozing body lying next to him.

John stood and searched the room, ignoring the prone figure on the bed for as long as he possibly could. The bathroom had a stack of towels, a tub of hot water, a sink full of cold water and a full med kit. All of the supplies he could possibly need to treat someone heavily wounded. Someone like Jim Moriarty. Someone who no doubt had the hotel room guarded. John darted a glance out of the bathroom and glared at Jim's unconscious body. He turned back to the medical supplies, eventually finding the note he'd known Jim wouldn't be able to resist leaving.

"My Dearest Dreadful Doctor John,

I seem to be ailing quite dreadfully and when on death's door, I'd rather die than accept treatment from anyone other than London's finest doctor! He turned me down, unfortunately, so with the last of my strength, I dictated this note and sent for you. You don't have to save me. My boys won't kill you if you don't but you probably don't believe that, do you? Think of how many lives my death will spare- Just tell him that I'm coughing! These bloody bullet holes are really really big. Look, doc, up to you, let me live or die. I don't really care. Well, a bit. But not too much, don't worry.

All My Love,

Jimmy

p.s. Not to worry! We're twins!"

John swore loudly and repeatedly. A decision, always the bloody dualities with Jim, even unconscious he'd want everyone around him squirming.

He couldn't save him. It was unthinkable, to help this monster would be putting so many people in jeopardy. So many would die. John walked past Jim's prone form, resolutely avoiding looking directly at it. He simply would not help this man. He sat in the chair by the window and waited, knowing he would not be allowed to leave until Moriarty was well and truly dead. Judging from the shallow breaths that laboriously bubbled from a blood filled throat, it would only be minutes before his over worked body finally gave.

Moriarty dead. So many who would die would be saved. Years of mourning prevented. Several wet coughs drew his eyes to Jim. The doctor in him could not be turned away and he couldn't help dissecting every squelch and sigh from the dying man.

Deciding there would be no harm in looking, he cautiously approached the bed and began to survey Moriarty's wounds. He appeared to have been shot twice, close range by the looks of it so they'd likely gone right through him. It seemed to merely be blood loss and internal hemorrhaging killing him. No major organ failure any where.

This was something that could have been treated by just about any moderately competent doctor which begged the question of why Moriarty was risking his life by leaving the wounds untreated this long.

John looked closely at Moriarty's face, seeing the same wrinkles of thought and concentration carved there that he saw at his flat every day. As much as he hated to admit it, Jim and Sherlock were similar, two sides of the same coin almost. How often did Sherlock allow his physical state to deteriorate in the face of all logic? Anytime he'd been distracted. John's own chuckle startled him out of his smile. This was the not the time to be comparing the two men.

It was more than likely true, though. Jim had been wounded and then forgotten about it in a flurry of hasty activity and by the time he thought to be treated, he was already near death. Oh lord, how disgustingly sick of him. Near death he'd thought of John, not only a surgeon and a blood match, as his post script indicated, but a good candidate for moral torture. His hatred of a man pitted against his instinctual need to save lives with his training and his weakness for emotionally tortured sociopaths, apparently.

Looking down at his pale face, so young but pitted with signs of a heavy mind, John couldn't help but think of Jim Moriarty, criminal extraordinaire, as quite the brat. This entire scenario had been on a whim simply for optimal amusement which, being unconscious, Jim could not even observe. John laughed aloud at the thought. The man was an absolute prat.

—-

When Moriarty awoke, his first action was to take a breath of the sweetest air he had ever tasted, savoring every second of stolen life he now had at his disposal. Looking around the room, he smiled at the dirty medical equipment strewn about. Yes, this new life definitely came at a cost and a heavy one at that for the dear doctor. Jim began laughing, the exertion of it straining the bindings on his chest but the pain only made him laugh harder.

To be alive and to feel pain. John Watson. The devoted soldier. Burdening the weight of all of Jim's future mischief and gaining what in return? Lost in thought, he tossed the lamp at the wall and wordlessly caught the phone that was tossed to him through the door by one of his guards in response. Sending a slew of orders to various people through rapid fire texts, he reclined and considered the man who had saved his life.

This had definitely confirmed it, it was time he began looking for a house pet to adopt. He didn't want John, he was fun enough for the interim but Jim wanted someone a little more suited to his taste. He'd always liked tall men. Oooh, maybe an American, they tended to be so violent. He rested his fingers lightly against his still swollen lips, mentally noting he needed a manicure, and smiled. Such a fun a night and so much fun ahead.

It was time to go shopping.

—-

Sherlock hadn't stopped staring at John all evening. He looked accusingly at him from various sulking positions throughout the flat, always pouting through a fringe of brown curls. John had long disposed of the flowers Mrs. Hudson had benignly delivered and arranged on their kitchen table. The tag had simply read:

"To, John W

I O U ;D"

She'd smiled and happily informed them they'd likely been from a fan of the website when they'd walked in to find her placing them in a vase. Sherlock had read the tag and immediately handed it to John and stared at him. John had simply tossed it onto the counter and rubbed his hand against his neck, anger pooling in his stomach. It had been only 12 hours since he'd sewn up Moriarty and donated a generous portion of his own blood to the man. He'd gone to a bar afterwards and after eating a bit and a few drinks, he'd managed to only look very drunk instead of incredibly ill.

Sherlock had seemed willing to at least pretend he believed it, clearly giving John the benefit of the doubt for his odd actions, until now. John refused to talk about it and Sherlock refused to be made to actually ask him. They fought silently, no one making any ground, until John began wearing thin an hour into one of Sherlock's impromptu violin sessions. Tonight, he seemed content to merely saw away, mindlessly shredding the ear drums of any in the vicinity and driving Mrs. Hudson into a near panic.

It was somewhere between her second fit of crying and Sherlock beginning to hammer repeated high notes that set John's hairs on end that he finally snapped. He stood with such force that his chair, heavy old thing that it was, skidded back a good foot and and a half. Mrs. Hudson immediately retreated from the room, each of her footsteps ringing in violent clarity in the resounding silence as Sherlock had ceased to play.

After hearing the gentle click of Mrs. Hudson's closing door, John crossed the space between him and the detective in short angry strides coming up mere inches away from him.

"Sherlock, look at me." The detective's eyes slid petulantly to the left, barely grazing the side of John's face. "Sherlock, look at me and tell me you aren't being a child."

"Look at me and tell me you aren't hiding things." Sherlock's eyes were suddenly locked to his, anger making them glint. John was halfway through pointing out the obvious hypocrisy of the accusation when Sherlock cut him off. "Everyone knows I lie, don't pretend to be surprised now. You don't though, John. That begs the question, what is so bad that you can't tell me? Or won't tell me, perhaps?"

"Remember the talk we had after the pool incident?" John rushed to keep talking, to keep Sherlock from interrupting him. He grabbed the taller man's hand and squeezed it hard in his own, running the rough pad of his thumb against Sherlock's palm. The contact startled the detective, allowing John the time to finish. "You said you would trust me, always. I'm asking you to trust me now Sherlock. I will tell you. Just not now."

"Am I allowed to guess?" Sherlock wasn't looking at him but instead studying their clasped hands. John chuckled at the question, giving the hand in his a light squeeze before gently letting go.

"I will give you absolutely no information though and if it impedes our daily lives, I'll go on a speaking strike." He shook his hand menacingly at Sherlock as he walked away into the kitchen to make tea. "And we both know from experience how much you need positive reinforcement."

Sherlock huffed but they resumed their usual pattern of smatterings of small talk as Sherlock amused himself in some way or another and John wrote in his blog or watched telly. It was after several minutes of comfortable silence that John heard Sherlock shift in a way that said a question was coming.

"You will tell me, of course? Eventually, I mean." He said it nonchalantly but there was an eagerness there that only months of living together had trained John to hear.

"I promise. I'll tell you a little more tomorrow. Just." John sighed, swallowing his dread. "Please trust me."

Sherlock looked up from his microscope and locked eyes with John, giving him a solemn nod that would have looked ridiculous coming from anyone else but held terrifying gravity coming from Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
